


There and Back Again:  A Vampire's Holiday

by Meltha



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crack, Crossover, M/M, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-09
Updated: 2011-11-09
Packaged: 2017-10-25 21:03:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/274767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meltha/pseuds/Meltha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike got a lot more than he bargained for with the amulet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There and Back Again:  A Vampire's Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters are owned by Mutant Enemy or J.R.R., wonderfully creative entities whose characters I have borrowed for a completely profit-free flight of fancy. Kindly do not sue me, please, as I am terrified of you. Thank you.
> 
> Written for the crossover round at maleslashminis for silkensky who request Legolas/Spike, a chase on horseback, no overly sad ending, and no crazy!Spike.

Spike had no way of knowing the amulet was more than it appeared to be. Buffy had asked him to wear it, and after several long, tense minutes of nothing, he had been bathed in the purest light he had ever seen, focused through the gigantic (and, he couldn’t help thinking, remarkably tacky) gem and cutting swaths through the Turok-Hans as though they were ice sculptures melting in the sunlight. Frankly, Spike thought it was pretty cool, but there was the small issue that he was a highly flammable vampire on the receiving end of what seemed to be a lot of sunlight. Buffy had told him she loved him and run, and Spike watched as the world came tumbling down around him and he dissolved to ash.

Except that he didn’t.

The gem was called home, through time and the very fabric of reality, drawn inexorably to the place of its birth. Spike opened his eyes, expecting to see nothing but darkness, hoping for his mother, but thinking it was more likely he’d wind up stuck with Angelus, or even worse with Angel, for eternity, but instead he was confused. So was the group of strange figures arrayed around him in a circle.

“What the hell?” he said, dropping into a battle stance. “Who are you people!”

“He has Narwamathar,” one of them stated, lifting a very fine boned hand towards Spike and pointing towards the necklace.

Spike focused on the speaker and was really rather stunned at just how beautiful the creature was. Tall, with delicate features, a lithe body, and long blond hair that swept midway to his hips, it took Spike a moment to decide whether it was male or female, but something in the breadth of his shoulders and his stance told him this was not only a male but a warrior at that.

“And again I ask,” he repeated, “who the bloody hell are you people?”

One of the others, taller even than the figure who had first drawn Spike’s gaze and with long, silver hair and a beard, spoke to the others in a lilting language that he had never heard before. The others responded, their tones confused and their eyes flicking curiously to Spike. While all of them had swords, Spike noted that none of them appeared to be threatening him, and he relaxed his posture, though he remained wary. Finally, the gray-haired figure spoke to him again in English.

“Traveler, welcome,” he said, bowing deeply. “If Narwamathar has chosen to take you with it in its homeward journey, then you must be worthy of such an honor, a true champion.”

“Yeah, that’s swell and all, but where, precisely, is here?” he asked, growing annoyed.

“You are in Mirkwood, friend,” said the particularly beautiful male. “No harm will befall you here. I am called Legolas.”

“Spike,” he said, nodding in his general direction. “And where might Mirkwood be?”

“At the heart of Middle-earth,” the older one spoke again. “From where do you come?”

“A few seconds ago I was in California,” Spike said, “or more specifically the mouth of hell, but I’m not sure there’s really that much difference.”

A volley of looks shot around the loose circle, ranging from surprised to stunned to fearful.

“Then it truly was so,” said the tallest one. “The Eye of Barad-Dur did indeed send its plunder into the hands of the profane ones.”

“But it has been returned,” Legolas argued gently, “and that shows all is well.”

“Okay,” Spike said, drawing a deep breath and trying to remain calm. “Let’s try this one more time. What precisely is going on? Also, why do you people talk like something out of Tolkien? You buddies with Andrew or summat?”

Again, glances flicked around the circle that still enclosed Spike, but then Legolas spoke.

“The gem you wear around your neck is called Narwamathar, the Warrior of Flame. It was forged in the dark mines of Moria long ago, and its twin jewel lies on the breast of the Lady Arwen in the form of the Evenstar. A great war happened, and in the midst of its raging, this necklace was stolen by the forces of darkness—the wolf, ram, and hart, who are the minions of Sauron—and we believed it lost,” Legolas explained. “But today, now that the war has ended, the remaining Elves have gathered to celebrate the return of peace to our land, and lo, when we formed a circle of council, you appeared in out midst, ringed in fire, and Narwamathar glowing brightly.”

Spike blinked.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “That really makes no sense at all.”

Legolas shrugged apologetically.

“It is no matter,” said the older man. “I am King Thranduil, and this is my domain. If _Narwamathar_ judged you worthy to be its champion and guardian, then you are welcome here. You must be tired after your long journey, and hungry as well.”

The king clapped twice sharply, and two girls, again blonde, lithe, and graceful, appeared immediately.

“Bring our guest… ehm, what was your name again?” he asked politely.

“Spike,” Legolas answered quickly, and Spike glanced at him curiously.

“Yes, bring Spike to a guest chamber, and bring him food and drink,” Thranduil went on, then paused, “and water to bathe in, as well.”

“Aye,” the two girls said, gesturing for Spike to follow them, which he most willingly did, but not without glancing behind once only to find the eyes of Legolas following him.

Spike was led to an airy stone chamber that looked like something from one of the old castles back home. A bottle of red wine, a loaf of bread, and green apples that glowed softly in the firelight lay on a wooden tray beside a chair, and a great bed with a green and gold canopy dominated the room. Spike also noticed there was a bookcase filled with very heavy, leather-bound tomes, and on a hunch, he took one from its place and opened it. With a groan, he put it back.

“Elvish,” he said to the empty room. “Bloody, buggering Elvish! This place is real.”

He looked at his surroundings again, then sighed. As far as alternate universes went, he had to admit this was much better than a lake of eternal fire and brimstone, or for that matter any of the other realities he’d read about in Giles’s books, especially that one world completely made of shrimp.

“Is everything to your liking?” asked a tentative voice behind him, and Spike whirled around quickly.

“Quiet thing, aren’t you,” he said, regarding Legolas with some admiration. It took more than common stealth to catch him unawares.

“When I wish to be,” he said, placing an old-fashioned washtub by the fire and emptying a pitcher of water into a kettle that hung over the flames. “You have nothing to fear here, Spike.”

Spike shook his head ruefully.

“Yeah, heard that one before, mate,” he said, taking the stopper from the bottle of win. “Usually it’s followed by the hordes of the damned kicking in the windows.”

Legolas looked at him, and Spike had the uncanny feeling that Legolas could see far more than the surface of things. It was an uncomfortable feeling at first, then oddly liberating.

“You have known great darkness,” the elf said, coming closer to him. “But there is light here as well, struggling with it.”

Spike said nothing, but didn’t move as Legolas came closer yet, and he noticed the incredibly intense color of his eyes. There was something about him, something that put Spike off his guard. The elf’s hand rose towards his face, stroking the skin of his cheek gently.

“You have done battle, and scars remain,” he said. “I bear them as well.”

Spike’s eyes fell closed, and he began to breathe, shallow and ragged. It had been so long since anyone had just touched him, not since before the soul, before the nightmares and guilt and insanity and hopeless quests that he knew would end in his death, and that was if he was lucky.

“You don’t know what you’re playing with, pretty thing,” Spike said, opening his eyes once more and finding Legolas smiling at him as though he knew some secret.

“I don’t?” he said, then stroked a finger over the lines of Spike’s face again…

… the ridged, transformed lines of his vampire face.

Spike was shocked for a moment, partly for not remembering losing control over his mask, and partly because this incredibly beautiful, nearly angelic man in front of him showed no fear, no repulsion at the sight.

“Yes,” Legolas said, “I know. I have fought darkness long enough to recognize it, and to recognize those who war against it, even when it resides within themselves.”

Legolas came closer, closing the few bare inches between them, and smiled again, warmly, before touching his lips softly to Spike’s own.

“I find it beautiful, your soul,” he breathed against his skin, and Spike found himself trembling, his hands gently lifting of their own accord and stroking against the silk-clad back of the prince. “I find it exquisite.”

A sob broke from his lips, and Legolas caressed him as though he were the most precious thing in this world on any other.

“Yes, my _vana_ ,” he whispered. “Let it go. Let yourself be healed. Your war is over now.”

Spike felt himself falling, the strong arms of the elf, who seemed so young yet whom he knew must be centuries beyond even himself in age, holding him tenderly as he deftly stripped him of his clothes and led him to the tub. The elf filled it with water, adding the warm kettle from the fire, and poured it over Spike’s flesh, the heat stilling the pain that had crept into his heart. With skillful hands, Legolas washed away layers of not only battle grime but sorrow and heartsick guilt and anguish until at last he felt clean.

“Have you another name, Spike?” Legolas asked from behind him as his fingers combed through Spike’s hair.

“I was William… once,” he said.

“Then that is who you are again,” Legolas said softly, then paused. “This is not your natural hair color, is it?”

“Probably no more than that’s yours,” he returned with a laugh, twisting around to look at him, and in a moment feeling a swell of desire. “Join me?”

“Do you mean you wish me to lay with you this night?” Legolas asked, and Spike’s ego received a boost as he heard the quickening of the elf’s breath.

“Yes,” he said. “That is exactly what I wish.”

Legolas stood, then offered a hand to the vampire, guiding him from the bathwater and then kissing him again. Spike’s hands slipped beneath the elf’s tunic, finding the strings that held it together and untying them blindly as he felt Legolas begin walking them backwards towards the bed. Though Spike had to admit the leggings were a bit harder to undo than he had counted on, he soon had him naked, naked and writhing for him, his moon-pale skin tinted rose in the firelight. Every touch seemed to heal something inside himself, wounds that he hadn’t known were even there, and when at last they reached ecstasy and lay beside one another, panting and glistening with a fine sheen of sweat, Spike knew he could sleep well for the first time since he could remember.

Days passed, weeks, months, and the two lovers were nigh inseparable. Spike learned that Legolas’s own heart had been broken not long before when an unrequited love had ended with the man marrying someone else. Personally, Spike couldn’t understand who would be stupid enough to deny Legolas anything at all, not with his mouth, his body, his kindness, his wit.

Sunlight had no effect on Spike in Middle-earth, and normal food seemed to be all he needed, though once, in the midst of a particularly memorable night, Legolas had cradled his transformed face against his throat, pressing him closer in a silent request, and Spike had drunk from him deeply, the taste unlike anything he had ever imagined could exist. The mark was still there, faded to a soft pink, and all Spike needed to do was catch the slightest glimpse of it peeking from beneath his collar to make him nearly wild for them to return to his room, which rapidly became their room.

It was on a warm morning in the late summer that Spike found himself galloping on horseback through the densely forested realm of Thranduil, closely pursued by Legolas. Spike knew that Legolas was probably letting him win, but at the moment he didn’t care. He’d stolen his lover’s favorite cloak and had ridden off with it, calling over his shoulder that if Legolas ever wanted to see it again, he’d have to catch him. Spike planned on being caught of course, and if he was lucky, he’d be severely reprimanded for his prank. The horses crashed through the dense underbrush of the woods, and Spike felt more like William again then ever, laughter erupting from him and answered by Legolas, who was now easily riding alongside him.

“I believe I have caught you,” he called, a chuckle in his voice. “I will have what is mine, William.”

“That you will,” he responded, pulling his horse up to a stop beneath an ancient oak and dismounting.

In a moment, Legolas was beside him, and the two sank to the earth almost at once. Strangely, though, Spike began to feel a burning in the region of his heart, and he looked down to see the stone of _Narwamathar_ glowing brightly. The elves had given it to him as a mark of respect, saying that if it had chosen him, with him it would remain, and he had worn it ever since, though he still secretly thought it was the gaudiest thing he’d ever seen that wasn’t designed by Joan Rivers. Legolas pulled back from their kiss and stared at the gem.

“Why’s it doing that?” Spike asked, gesturing towards the necklace.

“I don’t know,” Legolas said. “It’s almost as though… Take it off! Now!”

The frightened tone of Legolas’s voice was all Spike needed to hear. Immediately, he tried to pull the chain over his head, but it refused to move. Panic settled over both of them as they realized the amulet was almost certainly trying to draw Spike away, back to the other world he had come from.

“I’m not letting you go,” Legolas yelled loudly and fused their mouths together in a desperate kiss, gripping him tightly.

Spike wound himself around the elf as tightly as he could, but he still could see the light and flames that had happened just before he had found himself in Thranduil’s hall. A split second later, he found himself standing in the middle of a rather posh office. And no, this time it had to be hell, because there was Angel.

“Spike?” asked a man with an English accent.

“Spike,” Angel growled.

“Blondie bear!” squealed, oh gods no, this really was hell, Harmony.

“And who is he?” Angel asked angrily, pointing a couple feet away.

Spike spun around quickly, and there lay Legolas sprawled across the floor, his jerkin slightly askew. Spike rushed towards him and carefully got him on his feet again.

“Where are we?” Legolas asked, obviously confused.

“Together, pet,” Spike said, “and if I had to take a guess, I’d say Los Angeles.”

“This is your California?” he said, looking around uncertainly. “Perhaps they have need of you again as a champion.”

“No,” Angel said abruptly. “Absolutely not! We do not need any more champions!”

Spike looked at Angel critically, then sniffed.

“They might at that, only this time, they’ve got two for one, don’t they,” Spike said, kissing Legolas in an obviously territorial display that made Wesley look a bit uncomfortable and got Harmony making that squealing noise again. Angel just looked murderous, but whether the glare was meant for Spike or Legolas it was difficult to say.

**Author's Note:**

> Note: If I have my Elvish right, and I may not, Narwamathar roughly translates to fiery warrior, while vana means beauty.


End file.
